


Bedside Manner

by PrettyArbitrary



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, John is a Very Good Doctor, Sherlock is a Brat, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:51:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6233989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Advice on managing sick detectives, from a medical professional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts).



> For songlin, who wanted sickfic.

Sherlock thought he'd been the soul of patience, but the third time John came hovering at his elbow with a cup of tea with honey in, he snapped. "I am _fine_ , John. It's just the flu! I'm a healthy 34 year old man in excellent physical condition. Do you realize the statistical improbability of it turning into anything dangerous for me?"

"Well, it won't if you take care of it," John pointed out reasonably, and held the tea out. "You should rest. Drink lots of fluids. Eat properly. _Not_ spend hours in a chilly morgue and haunting the Met like the ghost of bronchitises past."

"You don't sound like a doctor, you sound like my mother!" Sherlock's answering snarl turned into a coughing fit that felt like the universe smugly taking John's side. In a fit of pique, he threw down the folder he kept getting distracted from reading. Pages flew everywhere, cranking his sour mood downwards another notch. He should make John put them back in order. It was his fault. "Did some dear relative of yours die traumatically of pneumonia or something? You are _obsessed!_ "

For a moment, John just stared at him, face carefully neutral...and then his expression crumbled ever so slightly, into something quietly, stoically devastated. "My grandfather," he said softly, eyes focused into the depths of the mug he held. "Yes. It wasn't... Look. It's why I became a doctor, alright? I don't want to have to go through that again." His jaw firmed, he set the tea down, and turned to walk away. "So just. Drink your goddamn tea, will you? And bundle up if you go out. Just for me."

"John..." Mouth fallen open, Sherlock struggled for words while he watched John retreat back into the kitchen. What did one say in moments like this? "That was...," he managed after a moment, "the most shameless attempt at emotional manipulation I think I've ever encountered." Sherlock was fairly proud of his own skills in that direction, but with that big-eyed kicked-puppy look added on top, John had just put him to shame. "Do you normally try to guilt trip your patients into cooperating with you?"

There was a clink of glass and the sound of pouring liquid, and then John came back out with a bowl of broth and a devilish grin. "It usually works. Now eat up and I'll consider putting that folder back together for you."


End file.
